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Authors: Elizabeth Haydon

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BOOK: Requiem for the Sun
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And since dragons were the race formed of elemental earth, he had a suspicion he knew what might help power the scale.
The time was almost right to test his theory.
He had already put the steps in motion; the Scales of Yarim had weighed in his favor. From the moment he had placed the totem of Living Stone on one plate and the violet scale of the New Beginning on the other and they had balanced, he had felt it, a blood-deep power coursing through his veins, an entitlement that transcended any other.
As the sun rose in the firmament, and the thick mist of the Skeleton Coast swallowed him into invisibility once more, the man knew that the time was at hand to see if he could wield it.
10
ON THE ROAD OUTSIDE YARIM PAAR
T
he sweet morning air rang with the sound of a glorious bass, slightly flat, echoing off the Teeth beyond.
My lover snores like a bear in its den,
She smells like a moose in 'eat,
She's covered in mud like a pig in a pen
Six toes on each of 'er feet.
Oh, 'ow Oi 'ates to leave 'er side
When Oi 'ears the call to duty,
Oi 'ad to look far and ‘ad to search wide
For a thing o' such endless beauty.
A score or so of raspy Bolgish voices picked up the chorus to the cadence:
Aye-eh, Aye-ah, a wondrous sight to sec,
Aye-eh, Aye-ah, my girl in Ter-I-lee.
Achmed was only half-listening to Grunthor and his troops extolling the praises of the Sergeant's favorite bedwench in song; he was watching instead for the approach of the Yarimese guards. He suspected that Ihrman Karsrick, paranoid old goat that the duke was, would do whatever he could to contain the presence of the Bolg in his province, escorting them grudgingly into the work zone, perhaps under cover of darkness, to avoid exposing his subjects to the cannibals, as Bolg were frequently referred to by humans.
He didn't need to wait long to be proven correct.
Just as the Bolg chorus had arrived at the place in the tune where Grunthor's wench's nose ring was being compared favorably to that of a local prizewinning bull, a thin line of horsemen appeared in the distance.
The melody choked off, swallowed with precision.
“Ah, 'ere comes the welcoming committee,” the Sergeant said, smirking. “Was wonderin' when the royal treatment was gonna begin.” He turned to the two dozen Firbolg workers and signaled the caravan to slow to half speed. “Ya all remember ta use yer napkins and fingerbowls like Oi taught ya. Now set to.”
The Bolg guard that was riding escort, numbering a dozen more, nonchalantly aimed their crossbows, targeting the forelegs of the Yarimese guards' mounts as the Sergeant and the Bolg king rode slowly out to meet the soldiers of Yarim.
A single rider, a dusky-skinned man with light eyes, separated from the contingent in turn and urged his mount forward gently.
“Well met, sire,” the officer from Yarim said when he was within earshot, addressing the Bolg in the Orlandan vernacular. “Welcome to Yarim; I am Tariz, and am to be your escort and aide while you are here in the province.”
Achmed did not favor the man with a glance. “Lead.”
The soldier reined his horse around, and rode back toward the Yarimese contingent, his shoulders twitching as if he expected a crossbow quarrel to be planted between them at any moment.
I
n all seasons save for summer, Yarim Paar was a cold, dry place, a flat wasteland nestled between the fertile fields of Canderre to the west and the towering peaks of the Teeth to the east. It was an older city than most others on the continent, and the most ancient of all the provincial capitals, having preceded the Cymrian era in its building by more than a thousand years. Exactly
how long it had been standing was lost to Time and the wind that blew the red clay around in spiraling clouds across the wide, arid plain.
In summer, the current season, the dry red clay clotted the air, making it difficult to breathe in the heat. The parched ground had baked at the surface and cracked, sending forth spirals of red clay dust with the tramping of the horses' hooves, stinging the eyes along with the glare of the sun.
Achmed had seen the bright white cloth of the construction tents that had been erected around Entudenin long before any of the rest of the decaying buildings in the center of the capital could be discerned. In the massive expanse of what had once been the jewel of the cold desert, the gleaming fabric of the site glowed against the backdrop of blood-red clay. He inclined his head toward it, and Grunthor nodded.
Tariz noticed their exchange. Nervously he shifted the reins into his right hand and pointed with his left.
“That is the site, sire,” he said awkwardly.
“Then why are we riding away from it?” Achmed asked, already knowing the answer. The sensation was similar to being a cat playing with a bird it had caught. His head hurt with the game, and it annoyed him.
“Er — we, ah, well, I have specific orders from the Duke of Yarim to first take you and your contingent to the barracks complex that has been set up for you outside the city to the northeast. You will be most comfortable there; we have arranged for housing for the men and animals, as well as for the machinery.”
“The men
too
?” asked Grunthor in mock amazement. “Oh, goody! Ya mean we don't have ta sleep in the rocks amongst the snakes? You truly are a gentleman, sir.”
“The duke intends to see to your every need while you are his guests,” stammered the aide.
“I presume that includes our need for constant guard,” Achmed said.
“Yes, yes indeed.” Tariz looked relieved.
The Bolg king reined his mount to a halt and gestured for the aide to stop alongside him. He leaned nearer, locking eves with the man.
“Let me make one thing undeniably clear from the outset, Tariz,” he said quietly. “Whatever your orders, my men and I are not your prisoners. For practicality's sake I will tolerate your presence, your needless vigilance, your standing guard over us while we work, for as long as it suits me. But bear in mind always that it is the ignorant fools in your own province you are watching for and holding arms against, whose curiosity is injurious in some way in the mind of your duke, not the Bolg artisans he has hired. If for one moment I feel a shift in that understanding, if any of my workers are harassed or made
to feel like anything less than the hired experts that they are, come to save your province from dying of thirst, we will be gone before you draw a second breath, leaving you to wither and desiccate in the sun. Do you understand my words?”
The Yarimese soldier nodded, his eyes bright in the sandy wind.
“Good. Then let us move out more quickly; the men deserve a rest from this sun before we begin work at nightfall.”
F
rom the gleaming marble balcony of her guest room in the Judiciary, the palace of Yarim's duke, Rhapsody watched the procession of wagons and horses as it turned to the east. The gown of green Yarimese silk in which she was clothed, the duke's welcome gift, gleamed in the sun passing over it as she turned to follow the caravan.
“Where are they going?” she demanded, shielding her eyes from the bright glare radiating off the balcony railing, inset with precious opals and lapis lazuli, the gloriously colored products of Yarim's famed mining camps.
Ihrman Karsrick cleared his throat. “I have arranged for them to be quartered in the Bissal Crescent, a few miles outside of the city,” he said blandly. “They should be easy to protect there.”
“That's nothing but a dust bowl,” said Ashe, crossing his arms. “Have you recently built a garrison there, Irhman?”
“No, m'lord, not a permanent one, but a full camp has been erected, with a ring of guards around it.”
Rhapsody turned to the duke. “Let me understand this. You have invited King Achmed to your province for the purpose of benefiting from his expertise, in a matter that could remedy the possible starvation of your people and save your treasury from being emptied, and you are expecting him to quarter outside the city, sleeping on a cot in a tent in the middle of a barren wasteland, under continuous guard, much in the same manner as you once housed the murderers from the Market of Thieves?”
“Not at all, m'lady,” replied Karsrick, his teeth set in annoyance. “The murderers from the Market of Thieves were given bedrolls, not cots. Where did you expect me to house the Bolg?”
The Lady Cymrian turned and strode angrily to the door. “I expected you to house them as you would any other guests in your province, Ihrman, and I am embarrassed on your behalf, as well as my own, that you didn't expect to do this as well. As for the Bolg king, who is a visiting head of state, and a fellow member of the Cymrian Alliance, I expected you would put him up in your very own bedchamber, if need be, and sleep yourself on the scullery floor with your fat arse to the fire before you would disgrace both of us like this.”
When the duke turned, purple with fury, to her husband, the Lord Cymrian merely shrugged.
“Namers must tell the truth as they know it, Ihrman,” he said, following Rhapsody to the door. “Speaking anything other than the truth dilutes their power. So perhaps it would have been more politic of me to address you myself, rather than leaving it to Rhapsody, and tell you what a graceless, mannerless idiot you are.” He caught her arm before she went through the doorway.
“You are right, of course, Aria,” he said quietly. “But practically speaking, do you not think the Bolg would be uncomfortable here in the Judiciary? Wouldn't they, in fact, have chosen the same sort of accommodation that Ihrman has provided had they been asked?”
“Undoubtedly,” his wife replied, kissing him on the cheek. “But they weren't asked. Sometimes the etiquette is more in the question than in the answer. I will return before supper.”
Ashe caressed her face gently, then returned to the balcony, watching in silence, listening with Karsrick as the palace guards repeated her orders to bring forth her mount and open the gate.
“Make certain she is accompanied and guarded on her way to the Bissal Crescent,” the Lord Cymrian directed Karsrick, who nodded angrily and left the room, leaving him to stand alone on the balcony, observing his wife ride off to meet the other two of the Three, the men who had brought her across Time, through the belly of the Earth, unknowingly returning her to his life and his world again.
He swallowed, willing himself to be grateful.
“W
ell, would ya look at that.”
Grunthor laughed aloud at the sight approaching the camp. From the west a rolling cloud of dust rose, in front of which a Lirin roan could be seen, in full canter transitioning to a gallop. Atop the roan was a woman in a green silk gown, her lower legs bare, the skirts streaming behind her in the wind, similarly to the way the blond tresses of her hair were flying, her scabbard slapping at her side. Behind her, a small retinue of guards struggled to keep pace.
“Looks like she's bent on losing them, eh, sir? Think she might be 'appy to see us?”
Behind his veils Achmed smiled as well. He knew it was only a matter of moments before she would descend upon them, because he had been tracking her heartbeat for most of the morning. It was racing in time with the galloping mare.
“Yes, I believe she is,” he said.
As she crested the rise where they were encamped, the roan slowed, then came to a graceful halt in a swirl of red dust. Rhapsody vaulted from the animal's back, and ran toward them, bare of foot, grinning.
She threw herself first into the waiting arms of the giant, allowing him to lift her from the ground and swing her about in his embrace like a child.
“Grunthor! I am
so
glad to see you! Thank you for coming!”
“My pleasure, miss,” the Sergeant grinned in return. “Been far too long.”
“I agree,” she said as he put her down gently on the ground. She turned to the Bolg king and embraced him. “Hello, Achmed.”
“Hello yourself,” Achmed replied. “That was quite a spectacle, the Cymrian Lady riding astride with her skirts flying up in the wind. If you decide to give up the royal life and go back to your previous profession, that might be a good way to attract business.”
“Thank you, I'm glad to see you as well,” she said, ignoring his comment and taking his arm, then Grunthor's. “I'm here to escort you to the Judiciary in Yarim Paar.”
“Why?” Grunthor asked.
“Well, it's bound to be more comfortable than billeting in the middle of the desert.”
“Naw, that's all right, miss. The troops are more comfortable ‘ere actually; fewer 'umans gawkin' at 'em. They can get some rest and a good meal and be ready ta work tonight. An' Oi'd just as soon stay with 'em, if ya don't mind.”
“Well, what about you, Achmed? Do you wish to remain here as well?”
“Did your husband accompany you to Yarim?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'll pass on the invitation,” the Bolg king said. Rhapsody's face fell, so he quickly added, “It's better that I remain with my ‘men,' as you are so fond of calling them.” He stopped at the top of a sandy rise, watching the deployment of the Yarimese guard around the perimeter of the camp. “But as long as you're here, I need you to look at something.”
Rhapsody glanced around the Bissal Crescent. Far away at the horizon to the east she could see the shadow of the Teeth, their multicolored peaks faded by distance into a muted gray, ringed with a haze of clouds; it was raining there, filling the watersheds, no doubt, with the life-giving rain that was denied by Nature to the vast expanse of the province of Yarim.
BOOK: Requiem for the Sun
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